I was reading Poemcrazy by Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge and one section was on where I come from. Not actually come from, since that was the Bay Area, but where I felt I belonged. I think that is a broad answer, where I’m from, since I feel like I’m from a lot of places. Or I just happen to like a lot of places. I wonder if they are one and the same.

I hope you all enjoy. I spit this one out today while eating lunch and scribbling with my fountain pen in my journal.

Okay, well I looked out the window this morning to see deer grazing in the open pasture behind the house. The wind was blowing a very cold draft from the north, biting and with the brown grasses blowing, it felt and looked just like autumn. Three days ago it was a balmy early spring day, but not so much today. It’s frigid, and cold, and I do not want to be outside.

We sat there in the sun, my sister and I, baking, warming from an altogether freezing dip in the pool. Though 73 is far from cold, it was a shock to our systems. Rugburn, my dachshund, crashes in the sun, drying from his unwanted swim in the pool. He rubs his face dry in the long grass. Scratching, Rubbing. Rolling. A lazy, contented daze crosses his face as he stares at a floating hover fly a few from him.
The sun has that September feel to it. Burning, but subtly different from the blazing, burn of July. More hazy. I feel the heat from it, warming my back. A warm breeze blows down from the mountain, bringing the sweet resinous scent of pines that have baked all day in the sun. Warm sweetness of dried grasses intertwine with dry dusty earth. A brush of sweet smoke. A faint flavor of cow manure graces the breeze. Not unpleasant.

The lawn is weedy again. With plantain seed heads and wide-bladed meadow grass that grows three times faster than the soft mountain grass. It needs to be mowed, but then it will lose it’s last summer feel to revert back to the clipped neatness of full on summer.

Sunflowers are heavy with seeds, though the golden disks are still blooming wildly at the top of ten foot spires. The trees are heavy with winded seeds. Rustling gently in the wind. There is a lazy feel to everything as flies buzz restlessly. The yarrow has gone to seed. Weedy heads like too tall trees sway slightly. Stellars jays chatter raucously as they fly over. Landing to call from a tree.

I watched a dragonfly zip by a wheelbarrow before landing for a moment. Rusty brown with etherial wings. He buzzed off in a hurry, to who knows where.

This weather demands pitchers of iced tea and good books to be read on a porch swing. Naps to be taken in a hammock. Endless games of croquet to be played leisurely.

Signing off

~Kate

“Young writers should read books past bedtime and write things down in notebooks when they are supposed to be doing something else.”
— Lemony Snicket

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